‘Whoever he is, he’s not after us, is he?’
‘He can do as many of them as he likes... scare them off,’ her husband agreed.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Siobhan muttered. Maybe she hadn’t meant them to hear, but they noticed her anyway.
‘And who the fuck are you?’ the man said.
‘She’s my fucking colleague,’ Rebus retorted. ‘Now look at me...’ He seemed suddenly larger, and the pair did look at him. ‘We do this the easy way or the hard — you choose.’
The man was sizing Rebus up. Eventually, his shoulders untensed a little. ‘We don’t know nothing,’ he said. ‘Satisfied?’
‘But you’re not sorry an innocent man is dead?’
The woman snorted. ‘Way he carried on, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner...’ Her voice trailed away as her husband’s glare hit home.
‘Stupid bitch,’ he said quietly. ‘Now we’re going to be here all night.’ Again he looked at Rebus.
‘Your choice,’ Rebus said. ‘Either in your living room, or down the station.’
Husband and wife decided as one. ‘Living room,’ they said.
Eventually the place grew crowded. The constables had been dismissed, but told to continue the door-to-doors and keep their mouths shut about what had happened.
‘Which probably means the whole station will know before we get back,’ Shug Davidson had conceded. He’d taken over the questioning, Wylie and Reynolds playing supporting roles. Rebus had taken Davidson to one side.
‘Make sure Rat-Arse gets to talk to them.’ Davidson’s eyes had sought an explanation. ‘Let’s just say they might open up to him. I think they share certain social and political opinions. Rat-Arse makes it less “us” and “them”.’
Davidson had nodded, and so far it had worked. Almost everything the pair said, Reynolds nodded his understanding.
‘It’s a culture-conflict sort of thing,’ he would agree. Or: ‘I think we all see your point.’
The room was claustrophobic. Rebus doubted the windows had ever been opened. They were double-glazed, but condensation had gathered between the panes, leaving trails like tear-stains. There was an electric fire on. The bulbs controlling its coal effect had long since blown, making the room seem even gloomier. Three pieces of furniture filled the place: a huge brown sofa flanked by vast brown armchairs. These last were where husband and wife made themselves comfortable. There had been no offer of tea or coffee, and when Siobhan had mimed drinking from a cup, Rebus had shaken his head: no knowing what sort of health risks they’d be taking. For most of the interview, he had stood his ground by the wall cabinet, studying the contents of its shelves. Videotapes: romantic comedies for the lady; bawdy stand-up and football for the gentleman. Some of them were pirate copies, the sleeves not even trying to convince. There were a few paperback books, too: actors’ biographies and a volume about slimming which claimed to have ‘changed five million lives’. Five million: the population of Scotland, give or take. Rebus saw no sign that it had changed any lives in this room.
What it boiled down to was: the victim had lived next door. No, they’d never spoken to him, except to tell him to shut up. Why? Because he’d yell the place down some nights. All hours, he’d be stomping around. No friends or family that they knew of; never had visitors that they heard or saw.
‘Mind you, he could have had a clog-dancing team in there, noise he made.’
‘Noisy neighbours can be hell,’ Reynolds agreed, without a hint of irony.
There wasn’t much more: the flat had been vacant before he arrived, and they weren’t sure exactly when that had been... maybe five, six months back. No, they didn’t know his name, or whether he worked — ‘But it’s odds-on he didn’t... scavengers, the lot of them.’
At which point Rebus had stepped outside for a cigarette. It was either that or he’d have had to ask: ‘And what exactly do you do? What do you add to the sum of human endeavour?’ Staring out across the estate, he thought: I haven’t seen any of these people, the people everyone’s so angry at. He guessed they were hiding behind doors, hiding from the hate as they tried to make their own community. If they succeeded, the hate would be multiplied. But that might not matter, because if they succeeded, maybe they’d be able to move on from Knoxland altogether. And then the locals could be happy again behind their barricades and blinkers.
‘It’s times like this I wish I smoked,’ Siobhan said, joining him.
‘Never too late to start.’ He reached into his pocket as if for the pack, but she shook her head.
‘A drink would be nice though.’
‘The one you didn’t get last night?’
She nodded. ‘But at home... in the bath... maybe with some candles.’
‘You think you can soak away people like that?’ Rebus gestured towards the flat.
‘Don’t worry, I know I can’t.’
‘All part of life’s rich tapestry, Shiv.’
‘Isn’t that good to know?’
The lift doors opened. More uniforms, but different: stab-proof jackets and crash helmets. Four of them, trained to be mean. Drafted in from Serious Crimes. These were the Drugs Squad, and they carried the tool of their trade: the ‘key’, basically a length of iron pipe which acted as a battering-ram. Its job was to get them into dealers’ reinforced homes as fast as possible, before evidence could be flushed away.
‘A good kick would probably do the trick,’ Rebus told them. The leader stared at him, unblinking.
‘Which door?’
Rebus pointed to it. The man turned to his crew and nodded. They moved in, positioned the cylinder and swung it.
Wood splintered and the door opened.
‘I’ve just remembered something,’ Siobhan said. ‘The victim didn’t have any keys on him...’
Rebus checked the splintered door jamb, then turned the handle. ‘Not locked,’ he said, confirming her theory. The noise had brought people out on to the landing: not just neighbours, but Davidson and Wylie.
‘We’ll have a look-see,’ Rebus offered. Davidson nodded.
‘Hang on,’ Wylie said. ‘Shiv’s not even part of this.’
‘That’s the team spirit we’ve been looking for in you, Ellen,’ Rebus shot back.
Davidson twitched his head, letting Wylie know he wanted her back at the interview. They disappeared inside. Rebus turned to the team leader, who was just emerging from the victim’s flat. It was dark in there, but the team carried torches.
‘All clear,’ the leader said.
Rebus reached into the hall and tried the light switch: nothing. ‘Mind if I borrow a torch?’ He could see that the leader minded very much. ‘I’ll bring it back, promise.’ He held out a hand.
‘Alan, give him your torch,’ the leader snapped.
‘Yes, sir.’ The torch was handed over.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ the leader instructed.
‘I’ll hand it in first thing,’ Rebus assured him. The leader glowered, then signalled to his men that their job was done. They marched back towards the lifts. As soon as the doors had closed behind them, Siobhan let out a snort.
‘Are they for real?’
Rebus tried the torch, found it satisfactory. ‘Don’t forget the crap they have to deal with. Houses full of weapons and syringes: who would you rather stormed in first?’
‘I take it back,’ she apologised.
They went inside. The place was not only dark, it was cold. In the living room, they found old newspapers which looked as if they’d been rescued from dustbins, plus empty tins of food and milk cartons. No furniture. The kitchen was squalid, but tidy. Siobhan pointed up high on one wall. A coin meter. She produced a coin from her pocket, slotted it home and turned the dial. The lights came on.